


Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap

by kathkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (due to characters being very drunk), Drinking Games, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pippin is sir not appearing in this story, bcos at the point in canon this is set he'd be too young to be at this kind of party, silliness with a side of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: It's not so much a game as a very confusing yet highly efficient way of gettingabsolutely smashed. In which a party gets out of hand, Frodo gets drunk, Merry is a wicked boy, Sam is befuddled, and the normal state of affairs is suspended.





	Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap

“I don’t care if he _is_ a gentlehobbit, Sam lad,” the Gaffer had said, “go up the hill and tell him to keep the noise down, and hop to it.”

So there Sam was, standing on the doorstep of Bag End in his shirtsleeves, waiting. And the worst of it was he didn’t really mind the noise himself.

True, it was the third time in as many weeks and true, the singing had got especially loud this time and even he had to admit that playing the drum at this time of night was hardly polite. But he could sleep through anything and he didn’t want to begrudge Mister Frodo and his friends their fun.

He thumped on the door again and wondered what he’d do if one of Mister Frodo’s posh cousins answered. They might not take kindly to the interruption.

The singing had stopped while he was on the way up the hill, but it started again, louder than ever. Voices and laughter and screams spilled out the open parlour window. Maybe he ought to try the kitchen door.

Or maybe he ought to go back down the hill with his tail between his legs.

Before he could make his mind up, the door opened and, with a joyful cry of, “Sam!” he was tugged inside by his braces.

“ _There_ you are, Sam,” said Frodo as if Sam was a wayward party guest. “Come and have a drink.”

“That’s very kind,” said Sam. “But I didn’t come here to drink with you – oh.”

Frodo had taken him by the hand and was now insistently leading him down into Bag End. There were young hobbits crowding the hall, most of them with drinks in hand and all of them in high spirits. As they passed the parlour door the drumming grew steadily louder.

“Who’s playing the drum?” said Sam, raising his voice.

“Oh, that’s just Fatty having a good time,” said Frodo airily. He stepped over the outstretched legs of a young hobbit sprawled against the wall smoking a very long pipe.

“Why does he have a drum?” said Sam.

“Good question,” said Frodo. “Come along.” He gave Sam’s hand a tug.

“I really just came to – excuse me.” Frodo dragged him clean through a gaggle of lasses. “Sorry. Mister Frodo – sir –”

“In here,” said Mister Frodo, opening the kitchen door and shoving Sam inside.

“My gaffer sent me up to talk with you,” Sam said in a tumble as Frodo busied himself, shoving a hobbit off his perch on the table to get at the beer.

“Oh?” Frodo, for the first time, paid attention to what Sam was saying. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Sam. “It’s just –”

“Oh, good,” said Frodo. “Here, get this down you.” He pressed a tankard on Sam so full of ale it was dribbling down the sides.

It wouldn’t pay to be rude, Sam supposed. One drink couldn’t hurt. He took a sip. “Ohh, that’s the good stuff.”

“East Farthing,” Frodo told him brightly. “Chuffy, be a dear and stop drinking out of the taps, that’s disgusting.” The young hobbit who’d been evicted from the table wiped his mouth and scowled. “Now, Sam,” said Frodo, taking hold of Sam’s braces again. “Sam. Sam. Samwise.”

Sam studied Frodo’s face, open and bright and flushed. “Are you drunk, sir?”

“No,” said Frodo, running his hands down Sam’s chest. “I’m squiffy. Sam. Come along to the dining room, we’re playing Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap.”

“Buckland what now?” Sam suspected Mister Frodo had gone beyond squiffy and into sloshed but he wasn’t about to say so.

Frodo grabbed his free hand and tugged him out into the hall so far that he sloshed ale onto the floor, which was a great pity because it was very good ale, and probably expensive. He slurped desperately at the rim of the tankard before he lost any more.

“Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap,” said Frodo. “There’s a seat left. It’s tremendous fun. Although,” he stopped a moment and put his mouth unsettlingly close to Sam’s ear, “just to warn you, Merry’s giving out forfeits and he’s a wicked boy.”

“Forfeits?” said Sam. This was getting out of hand and he hadn’t the first idea what to do about it. 

Frodo opened the dining room door and hauled him inside. “Look who I found on the porch!” he announced to the table, to a chorus of delighted greetings and spontaneous toasts.

There were far too many hobbits crammed around the dining table on an assortment of mismatched chairs from all over Bag End and Sam’s first thought was _goodness, half of them are naked_. They weren’t naked, it was just that six or seven of the lads had their shirts off – six or seven lads and one lass, he realised with a start. Primrose Farfoot was sitting there shamelessly with her breasts out.

She caught him looking and said, laughing, by way of explanation, “forfeit.”

Sam looked across the table at Merry Brandybuck, who stuck his pipe in his mouth and held up his hands in a shrug as if to say, _what, I wanted to see some tits, can you blame me_.

“Sit here,” said Frodo, pulling Sam down into the chair beside himself. “Can we deal him in, Merry?”

The dining table was cluttered with the strangest array of oddments. At least two sets of playing cards stacked up in haphazard piles, several different coloured dice, a pile of draughts mixed with what looked like loose buttons. There was a sort of tower, in the middle of the table, constructed out of silverware and an old set of toy building bricks.

“The more the merrier,” said Merry, and chuckled to himself.

“I don’t know how to play,” said Sam.

“That doesn’t matter, you’ll pick it up.” Frodo busied himself re-lighting his own pipe.

“It’s very simple.” Merry learned eagerly across the table. “You take a card, and if it’s the same suit as the one on the table – which is, is –” He rooted through the cards. “The ace of clubs – if it’s the same suit, you take a drink and then role the dice to see what your number is and that’s how many counters you take. If it’s the same number as the card on the table then you spin the – where’s it gone,” he pawed in between dirty tankards, continuing the explanation of the rules, which had already become dizzying. “…Then you add something to the mountain and move on clockwise – are we still going clockwise? Yes, I think we are.”

“And if you lose your turn you do a forfeit,” chipped in Folco Boffin from the seat beside Merry. “Cake?” he said, offering Sam a plate.

“Oh, no – well, alright,” said Sam, taking a cake which smelled of honey and faintly of pipeweed. “Mister Merry, I don’t follow.”

“You’ll pick it up as you go,” said Merry.

Sam looked helplessly at Frodo, who shrugged and said around his pipe, “Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap,” as if that explained everything.

“Is this a real game?” said Sam. It sounded less like a game and more like a very confusing but highly efficient way of getting absolutely smashed.

“I’ll have you know it’s a proud Buckland tradition,” said Merry.

“No it isn’t,” said Frodo, his breath tickling Sam’s ear.

“Here’s your counters,” said Merry, shoving two handfuls of buttons across the table. “Anyway, now you’re dealt in, you have to,” Merry motioned to his mouth as if drinking.

“Eh?” said Sam. Merry did the motion again.

“You have to drink,” said Frodo.

“Aha!” Merry nodded at Frodo. “You too.”

“I was explaining to Sam,” said Frodo. “That doesn’t count!”

“It counts,” pronounced Merry.

“What?” said Sam.

“You’re not allowed to use the d-word,” said Merry.

Sam said, “you mean dr-”

“Yes, that one,” said Merry. “Say it and you have to do it. Go on, Frodo,” he said, motioning.

“Why can’t we say the d-word?” said Sam.

“Oh, yes, I forgot to say,” said Merry. “You win your turn, you get to make a new rule. That’s the round robin part. Petunia made a rule against the d-word. Get on and do it, Frodo, it’s your turn. We’ve been waiting on you.”

“Whoops, sorry,” said Frodo. “Bottoms up, Sam,” he said, and clinking their tankards together he took a generous swig of ale. “In I go,” he said, and drew a card.

Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap was as dizzying in practice as in theory. Counters moved about the table, people called out “snap!” three times, everyone drank at least twice, and Frodo’s turn wasn’t even over.

Finally Merry said, “you’re out,” and took half Frodo’s counters. “Forfeit!”

“Forfeit!” cried half the young hobbits around the table, toasting the occasion. Frodo just laughed.

“How do you _win_ a round?” said Sam, who hadn’t followed events at all.

“With difficulty,” said Frodo.

Merry, who had been conferring quietly with Folco Boffin, looked across the table with a gleeful smirk and said, “alright, Frodo, your forfeit –”

“I’m all ears,” said Frodo.

“Your forfeit is to – is to – is to kiss Sam on the mouth,” said Merry, and he collapsed into giggles.

Sam’s mouth fell open. His face burned. The whole table was laughing at them and he didn’t know what to do.

“I _told_ you he was wicked,” said Frodo to Sam with a fond roll of his eyes. “Do you mind?”

That was a big question, one he wasn’t sure he could answer sober, let alone crammed tipsily into the dining room of Bag End with a dozen drunk gentlehobbits. But he _had_ agreed to play the game – sort of – and they’d all think him a dreadful coward if he said no. And Merry wasn’t sure to go hard on him once it was his turn to take a forfeit, if he said no. “I don’t mind,” he said.

“Good,” said Frodo. He took a hold of one of Sam’s braces, leaned in – and shoved his tongue down his throat.

Sam lost his grip on his tankard, which was thankfully already on the table, and saw stars. He hadn’t expected Frodo to be so enthusiastic. His tongue was fully in Sam’s mouth and despite himself Sam found he was kissing back.

He was dimly aware that the other hobbits were cheering them on but he was too dazed with sudden queasy lust to really care. He felt drunk, and dizzy, and mindless.

“That’s enough, you two,” he heard Merry Brandybuck say, and with a mumble of protest Frodo pulled away.

At some point in proceedings he’d climbed half into Sam’s lap and he sat there, fingering the collar of Sam’s shirt. “Sorry,” he said, his eyes sparkling. He pressed a kiss to Sam’s cheek, just beside his nose, and slid back into his own seat, leaving his leg draped comfortable across Sam’s thighs.

People were clapping now, and laughing, and Sam’s face burned a bright scarlet with sudden embarrassment. But, he realised, they weren’t laughing _at_ him so much as at the whole business. Someone thumped him on the back as if to thank him for being such a good sport.

“Your turn, Sam,” said Merry.

Sam looked at the game in progress on the table, which he was, if anything, less close to understanding. “Oh, no,” he said.

“Take a card,” said Frodo, nudging Sam’s knee with his foot.

Well, Sam supposed, he was in too deep to back out now. He took a card.

Merry and the others barked out instructions, most of them confusing, some contradictory. “Roll the dice,” said Merry. “No, the – the other dice – that one.”

“Take another card,” said someone.

“Snap! Take these,” said Folco, handing him two more buttons.

“The spinner,” said someone else.

“ _Not_ the spinner,” said Merry. “Now, everyone –” He made the drinking motion.

“Snap!” cried most of the table.

“Annnd you’re out!” announced Folco Boffin. “Forfeit.”

“Forfeit!” chorused the others, and Sam’s heart sank.

Merry took his pipe out of his mouth, looked Sam in the eye, and said, “take your shirt off.”

“Merry, be nice,” said Frodo as Sam clutched at his shirt, holding it on. “It’s his first time.”

“I am being nice!” said Merry. “That’s his forfeit. Off with it.”

“You’ve had enough of the lads take their shirts off,” piped up Folco. “Think of something else.”

“And he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” said Frodo. Then he turned to Sam and said in a tone that if Sam didn’t know better he might call _sultry_ , “unless you _do_ want to take it off.”

“I really don’t want to, sir,” he said.

“Come up with something else,” said Frodo to Merry.

“I let you keep yours, didn’t I?” Merry rolled his eyes. “ _Fine_ ,” he said, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “His eyes gleamed, and he said, “alright. Sam – sing us a song.”

“What?” said Sam.

“You heard me. Sing for us. That’s your forfeit,” said Merry.

“I’d rather not,” said Sam.

“Are you playing Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap or not?” said Merry. “Get up and sing.”

“Go on, sing!” said someone else.

“Sing for us,” said Frodo, nudging Sam’s leg with his toes. “C’mon.”

“I’m no good at singing,” said Sam.

“Yes, you are,” said Frodo. “You have a nice voice. I’ve heard you. Go _on_ , Sam.” He nudged Sam again and all around the dining room young hobbits were clamouring for him to go on and sing something before the sun came up.

With deepest reluctance, Sam got to his feet. “I don’t know what to sing,” he said.

“Anything you like,” said Merry carelessly.

The first song to come to mind, then, which was difficult as he was past tipsy now and on the spot in a smoke-filled room packed with half-naked gentlehobbits.

He probably ought to have gone for something short but the song that came to mind, and came out of his mouth, was a strange ditty he’d learned from Mister Bilbo back when he was learning his letters, a curious, upbeat song Bilbo had either written himself or taken from Elvish, Sam didn’t know.

He finished to delighted applause, and for the first time it hit him that this whole business truly wasn’t some ploy to humiliate him. Somehow, he realised as someone thrust the cake platter at him again, they actually did _want_ him there, all of them.

He sat down heavily, holding his cake in one hand and his tankard in the other, and realised two more things: firstly, that he was having rather a good time, and secondly that he’d be in the hottest of hot water once he got home. He was on his second drink already.

“My turn?” piped up Rollo Barrows on his right.

“Nope,” said Merry. “Sam got a queen so we have to go widdershins now.”

“That’s not the rule,” said Frodo.

“It is so,” said Merry.

“You made that up to pick on me,” said Frodo.

“Take a card, you ass,” said Merry.

Frodo took a card, and played, and – “you’re out again,” said Rollo in delight. “Forfeit!”

“I should probably warn you,” said Frodo, his mouth once again far too close to Sam’s ear, “I am _very_ bad at Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap. I do a lot of forfeits.”

“Take your shirt off,” barked Merry across the table.

“I already said no,” said Frodo. “Face it, Merry Brandybuck, I’ve done them all. I’ve done all your forfeits.”

“Haven’t.” Merry crossed his arms with a stumped scowl.

“I’ve a good one,” said Folco suddenly.

“Oh?” Merry gestured at his ear. “Let me hear it.”

Folco whispered urgently in Merry’s ear, and as he did so Merry’s face creased with laugher. “Oh, that is _good_. I like that.” He turned to Frodo and pointing at him with the stem of his pipe said, “Frodo.”

“Me?” said Frodo.

“You have to spend the rest of the game,” said Merry, “sitting – in Sam’s lap.”

Frodo burst into peals of laugher. Sam glowered. “That’s not fair, Mister Merry, sir,” he said. “Stop picking on _me_.”

“I’m not,” said Merry with a shrug. “It’s Frodo’s forfeit.”

“Best get it over with,” said Frodo, and climbed, Sam would almost say eagerly, into Sam’s lap, where he sat.

“Oof,” said Sam as Frodo made himself comfortable.

“Alright?” said Frodo, smiling sunnily down at him.

And with Frodo looking at him like _that_ , Sam couldn’t find it in him to object. He resigned himself to his fate and put an arm around Frodo’s middle to hold him in place.

“Now down it!” shouted Pansy Farfoot from the other end of the table.

“Right you are,” said Frodo – and picking up his tankard, he proceeded to down the entire half-pint while the assembled tweens whooped and cheered him on.

“Oh, dear,” Merry sighed. “That wasn’t part of the forfeit.”

“Too late now,” drawled Frodo. “On with the game, eh? It’s you next, Petunia.” As Petunia drew her card, he said to Sam, “Old Toby?” and poked at his mouth with his pipe.

“No, that’s alright – well, go on,” said Sam, accepting the pipe, which Frodo seemed only too happy to share.

They got on with the gam, which continued in a whirlwind of playing cards and forfeits and loose buttons. Frodo sat with an arm looped around Sam’s shoulders, lounging in his lap, passing the pipe back and forth, to all appearances perfectly comfortable.

There was impropriety, Sam reflected as Frodo pressed the pipe on him again, and then there were things that were so out the bounds of _normal_ that they no longer registered. Frodo had begun to stroke the back of his neck. It was giving him gooseflesh.

“Enjoying yourself under there, Sam?” said a smirking hobbit at the other end of the table.

“Keep your tongue in your head, Hob Goodsong,” Sam snapped back.

“Oh no – no,” said Frodo. “You have to –” He did the drinking motion.

“What?” said Sam. “Why?”

“You’re not allowed to say names beginning with H,” said Frodo. “S’rule. Someone made it a rule.”

“ _You_ made it a rule!” said Folco.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Frodo. “So I did. You still have to drink, though.”

“Ha!” cried Petunia, pointing at him. “You too!”

“Pointing’s against the rules,” Sam reminded her.

Petunia scowled. “I hope you _die_ ,” she said, and drank. Then she looked at Frodo and with a spiteful glint in her eye said, “you have to down it.”

“Whoops,” said Frodo, and downed his drink.

“No – don’t –” said Merry, to no avail. “Will everyone stop telling Frodo to down it, he’s too drunk for that.”

“ _You’re_ too drunk for that,” said Frodo, waving his empty cup in Merry’s general direction.

“Am not,” said Merry.

“Are so!” said Frodo.

“I can hold my beer fine,” said Merry. “ _You_ are sloshed, you ninny.”

“I’ll give _you_ sloshed, you jumped-up Brandybuck.” Frodo lunged across the table, knocking over several tankards and almost falling out of Sam’s lap as he did so.

“No!” said Sam, grabbing him tight around the middle and heaving him back into his proper place, to a chorus of laughter.

“Stop laughing at me,” slurred Frodo. “This is my house. I’ll throw you all out.” He swayed on his perch and looked at his empty cup. “Where’s my drink?”

“You drank it,” said Petunia.

“Someone get me another,” said Frodo, waving his tankard at no-one in particular.

“I’m cutting you off,” said Sam, prying the tankard out of his grip.

“Swine,” said Frodo. Trailing a hand over Sam’s curls, he said, “how’d you get your hair so soft?”

“Just naturally that way,” said Sam weakly.

“Fancy,” said Frodo.

Across the table, Merry rubbed a hand over his eyes. Sam could tell he’d noticed the problem too; the problem of Frodo being far too drunk to be playing games or hosting parties or, to be frank, to be doing anything except going to bed and sleeping it off. Unfortunately they were all of them drunk and Frodo was master of the house and what were they supposed to _do_ about it?

“It’s my turn,” said Merry, even though it wasn’t. He reached for a card.

Frodo shifted in Sam’s lap, and Sam, much to his confusion, felt the first button of his shirt come undone. He looked up at Frodo. Frodo met his eyes, and undid the second button.

“It’s not your turn, it’s mine,” someone was saying.

“No no, it’s my turn now,” said Merry. “I said so.”

“Stop changing the rules, it’s not polite,” said Folco.

Frodo shoved his hand inside Sam’s shirt and under his vest and for a few dazed and somewhat excited moment’s Sam brain stopped working altogether.

Then outside, as Merry and Folco and the others squabbled over the rules of Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap, he heard a commotion. Raised voices – the group of girls he and Frodo had pushed past on their way to the kitchen, squawking angrily. And cutting over them another voice, a horribly familiar one.

There were some sounds that had the uncanny power to turn a hobbit from _squiffy_ to _sober as a judge_ in a matter of heartbeats.

Taking Frodo by the wrist Sam yanked his hand out of his shirt and then began, ineffectually, to push him off his lap. Frodo resisted. 

“Mister Frodo,” Sam said. “Sir, please – please get off, afore –”

“I’m not making things up, I just know the rules better than you because I’m a Bucklander and you’re not,” said Merry.

The dining room opened and with a clumping of outdoor boots, in stomped Gaffer Gamgee.

The room was, for several seconds, split between raucous laughter and paralysing silence. Pansy Farfoot with a shriek leapt out of her chair and dived beneath the table. Somebody hissed, “who’s that?”

There really, Sam reflected, wasn’t any way to explain his current predicament. It was just as well that his father was as baffled by the goings on in the dining room as anyone else. He stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, at a loss.

“Good evening, gaffer,” said Frodo, with the air of one trying _very hard_ to appear sober. “What brings you up here?”

“I was looking for my Sam,” said the Gaffer.

“Oh.” Frodo pointed. “He’s here.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said the Gaffer. “Sam, lad, what are you doing?”

That was a very good question and though his mind had been racing Sam still didn’t have an answer. “Mister Frodo asked me in for a drink,” he said.

“I said come straight back down the hill!” said the Gaffer.

“I didn’t want to be rude,” said Sam. Frodo began to stroke his hair again. Sam shrugged him off.

“I said go up there and have a word with him and come straight back,” said the Gaffer. “And here I find you, doing – what are you doing?” He surveyed the table. “What is this, gambling?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on,” Sam gabbled.

“You’ve been up here two hours, lad!”

“It’s not gambling,” said Merry, sitting forward. “It’s Buckland Rules Round Robin Beer Snap.”

It was clear to Sam that until that moment his Gaffer hadn’t spotted Merry, hidden as he was in a haze of shadows and pipe-smoke. It was one thing to tell off a room full of drunken Hobbiton tweens, _quite_ another to give the heir to Buckland a scolding.

“There’s no such game,” he said at length.

“I’ll have you know it’s a grand Buckland tradition,” said Merry.

“No, it’s not,” said Frodo.

“It is so!” said Merry.

“It’s not,” said Frodo. “I was there when he made it up, Gaffer, he’s a consummate liar.”

“Well, whatever it is, I don’ think any of your parents would want you playing it,” said the Gaffer. “Don’t think I didn’t see you back there, Pansy Farfoot. I know your mother, girl.”

The response came, a quavering wail from under the table, “please don’t tell my mother!”

“Wait, why did he send you up here?” said Frodo to Sam.

It took Sam a moment to find his tongue. “About the noise,” he managed.

“Did you just come up the hill to tell us to be quiet?” said Frodo. “Why didn’t you _say_ so?”

“I kept trying!” said Sam. “You wouldn’t listen!”

“If this is about Fatty,” said Frodo to the Gaffer. “I can’t control him and I don’t know where he got the drum – _whoops_!” He almost fell off Sam’s lap yet again. Sam held onto him tight. He was acutely aware of how this must look, Frodo sitting on his lap, but the fact of the matter was he didn’t trust Mister Frodo to find his way safely to a chair in his current state. “I don’t even _own_ any drums,” Frodo finished up.

“You do realise there’s folks singing out in your garden?” said the Gaffer.

“What?” said Frodo groggily.

Staggering slightly, Merry pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll go tell them to shut up, shall I?

Before he meant it as far as the door, Frodo turned again to the Gaffer and said, to Sam’s utter mortification, “your son has a _very_ comfortable lap. You should be proud.”

“Right, that’s enough,” said Merry and before anyone else could react he grabbed Frodo about the waist and hauled him off Sam’s lap.

“Help!” said Frodo. “Merry! No!” Merry dumped him unceremoniously into a chair and he sat looking befuddled. “Where’s my drink?”

“Sam cut you off,” said Merry.

“Good lad,” said the Gaffer.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Frodo. “I knew I was cross about something.”

“Anyway.” Merry clapped his hands together. “The game’s over, boys and girls. Everyone go home.”

There was a chorus of protests. “We’ve hardly started!” said Folco.

“I don’t care,” said Merry. “Go home. We’re done for the night.”

“No, no, it’s my house,” said Frodo, levering himself to his feet. “We’re not done till I say we’re – _whoops_.” He staggered and with Merry’s help fell back into his chair. “Merry I’m drunk.”

“I mean it!” said Merry, holding the door open and gesturing sweepingly to the hall. “Everyone out.”

One by one, with muttering reluctance, the young hobbits began to file out. Pansy Farfoot crawled out from under the table, fully dressed, and raced past the Gaffer with flushed cheeks.

“You too, lad,” said the Gaffer, heaving Sam out of his chair.

“Actually.” Merry leaned in the doorway, unnervingly sober for the amount of ale he’d consumed. “If you don’t mind, I could use Sam’s help clearing everyone out.”

Gaffer Gamgee looked at Sam. Sam shrugged. “I can help,” he said.

“Do as you please,” said the Gaffer, releasing Sam’s arm. “Just so long as this lot quiet down.”

“Quiet as a tomb within the hour, I promise!” Merry called after him.

It took a fair bit more than an hour, in the end, to clear them all out. There was an unreasonable number of hobbits packed into Bag End and it fell to Sam and Merry to sort out which of them were sober enough to get themselves home and which weren’t.

While Merry rounded up those too drunk to walk back down the hill, Sam stopped Chuffy drinking out of the beer taps and sent him out the kitchen door, evicted half a dozen lads from the pantry where they’d found their way into the cheese, and broke up a game of dice in the back bedroom. He sent Fatty Bolger, still clutching his drum, and his group of revellers out into the night, with a stern instruction to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, Bag End was quiet again. He hauled the last pair out of a cupboard where they’d been necking and sent them packing, and he was alone. Moonlight slipped in through the open front door, illuminating stick patches of spilled beer. The whole place reeked of pipeweed.

It was about time somebody checked on Mister Frodo, Sam decided. He went to the kitchen for a cup of water and searched.

Frodo wasn’t in the dining room, where Sam had left him, though his pipe sat cold on the table. Sam went back into the hall. “Mister Frodo?” he called. From deeper in the hill he heard a soft, wordless response

He was in the parlour, lying sprawled on the couch, his face half-hidden in the cushions. “Sam,” he aid as Sam approached. “The parlour’s spinning.”

“It ain’t, sir, you’re drunk,” said Sam.

Frodo raised his head and scowled. “Well, of course I’m drunk!” He flopped back down. “Sam. Sam. I feel wretched.”

Sam knelt beside him. “I brought you some water.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Frodo as Sam pressed it into his hand. He drank a little, and sighed. “Sam. Why are you so sweet?”

“Well you see, sir, I eats a lot of honey,” said Sam.

Frodo’s face crinkled with laughter. He buried his face in the cushions as he laughed and laughed. “Sam,” he gasped. “oh, Sam.”

“Drink your water, sir,” said Sam, steadying Frodo’s hand to keep it from spilling.

“Oh, yes,” said Frodo, and drank some more. He lifted his head and looked up at Sam, his eyes bright. “Sam.”

“Yes, sir?” said Sam, stroking a few damp curls away from Frodo’s face.

“Can I kiss you again?” said Frodo.

“No, sir,” said Sam, petting Frodo’s hair.

“Why not?” said Frodo.

“Because you’re drunk, Mister Frodo,” said Sam. “You’re too drunk to be kissing anyone. Drink your water.”

“Hm.” Frodo drank another sip. “What about in the morning?”

“The morning?”

“The morning, when I’m sober,” said Frodo. “Can I kiss you then?”

“We’ll see, sir,” said Sam. “Now I think it’s time I put you to bed.”

“Ohh,” said Frodo as Sam helped him to his feet. “To bed, eh?”

“Not like that,” said Sam. “Cor, you’re heavier than you look. Move your feet.”

Frodo moved his feet in approximately the right direction and Sam half led, half carried him through Bag End to his bedroom. “Mmm,” Frodo sighed as Sam helped him inside. His arms wrapped loosely around Sam’s chest. “You smell nice,” he said into Sam’s ear.

Sam shivered. “I don’t suppose I do, sir,” he said, and gave Frodo a shove down onto his bed, where he sat looking bewildered.

“I didn’t mean to get so drunk, Sam,” said Frodo as Sam helped him off with his waistcoat.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Sam.

“It’s all Merry’s fault,” said Frodo. “He’s a terrible influence on me.”

“That’ll be it,” said Sam, pulling back the covers. “Lie yourself down, now.”

“Mm.” Frodo flopped onto his back.

“On your side,” said Sam, rolling him over. “Like that.” He tucked the blankets over Frodo’s shoulder and made to move away.

Frodo grabbed his hand, holding him in place. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Sam, even though it was.

“No, no, it was,” said Frodo. “M’sorry. It’s my fault. You’re so good to me and I don’t deserve it.”

“Shush, now,” said Sam, touching his forehead.

“Will you sit with me?” said Frodo.

He was looking up at Sam so beseechingly. Sam perched on the edge of the bed. “Just for a while, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo sighed, and closed his eyes. But after only a moment he opened them again, and said softly, “I miss him.”

Sam’s heart froze for a moment. He squeezed Frodo’s hand tighter. “I miss him too, sir,” he said. “You sleep now.” Without thinking about what he was doing, he pressed a kiss to Frodo’s knuckles.

“Hmm.” Frodo’s eyes fell closed, a smile playing about his lips, and he slept.

Sam sat beside him a moment longer, stroking his hair away from his face. Then, quietly, he set Frodo’s hand down upon the pillow and removed himself, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.

The hall of Bag End was, as promised, silent as the grave. Sam stood alone in the semi-dark, wondering what he ought to do, if he ought to go home, if he ought to leave Mister Frodo alone.

The front door creaked. “Hello?” called Merry.

“Evening, sir,” said Sam, hurrying down the hall to meet him.

“Oh, you’re still here,” said Merry, wandering in. “Where’s Frodo?”

“Put him to bed,” said Sam.

“Good lad,” said Merry. He stretched his arms towards the ceiling. “Tonight,” he pronounced, “got a bit out of hand.”

“I’ll say, sir,” said Sam. “I think someone threw up in the linen closet.”

“Well, Sam, I have some good news for you,” said Merry. “We don’t live here, so that is _not_ our problem.” He sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen.

“My sister cleans this hole, you know,” said Sam.

“I’ll make Frodo clean it up in the morning,” said Merry. “Don’t fret. The night is young. Fancy another drink?”

This was a very strange night, Sam reflected, the heir to Buckland asking him to come and have a drink and all. “Just the one, sir,” he said. Merry grinned.

*

Waking up, it took Sam some minutes to place where he was. It was quiet and even through closed eyelids he could see sunlight; when he opened his eyes he didn’t recognise the ceiling.

He was lying on the couch in the parlour of Bag End. Somebody had opened a window and the curtains were drifting lazily in the breeze. He lay on his back, feeling muzzy, and went over the events of the previous night in his head.

He’d be in for it when he got home. But the parlour was so quiet and peaceful, the spring air coming through the window so sweet, he felt entirely calm. He felt, to his relief, far less hungover than he’d feared. Mostly what he felt was hungry.

Sam climbed off the couch and hooked his dangling braces back over his shoulders. He rubbed his eyes, and tip-toed out into the hall.

It was as if he’d stepped into some strange other world, some topsy-turvy place where the rules didn’t apply. It was, at a guess, well past nine o’clock and yet no-one had woken him. He’d barely set foot in the parlour of Bag End before and now he’d slept the night in it. He was in Bag End, somehow, as a guest. The normal state of affairs had been suspended.

He wavered for a moment, wondering if he might perhaps go home, go back and face his father and get on with the day. But he ought to make sure Frodo was alright first. He went deeper into the hill.

Frodo he found in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a plate of bread and butter. At the sight of Sam in the doorway he waved. “Good morning,” he said. “I thought you’d gone home. Where’ve you been all night?”

“Um.” Sam passed a hand across his forehead, not sure how to explain. “In the parlour.”

“Really?” said Frodo. “You were welcome to a bed.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep in the parlour.” Sam had a hazy recollection of setting down his head on the cushions for a moment to rest his eyes. After that he didn’t know. “Where’s Mister Merry?”

“In the garden,” said Frodo. “Second breakfast? I think we all slept through the first one.”

“That’s very kind, sir, but I ought to be getting back home,” said Sam.

“Hm?” said Frodo. “Oh goodness, I didn’t think. They must be wondering where you are.”

“No, they know where I am,” said Sam. “Or at least my Gaffer does.”

Frodo looked at him for a moment, puzzled. Then understanding and recollection dawned. He dropped the slice of bread he was holding and said, “good gracious, he came up here, didn’t he? I forgot. Oh _no_.” He collapsed into breathless giggles. “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

“It’s fine, Mister Frodo,” said Sam.

“Are you sure?” said Frodo. “Do you need to go down to number three and tell the Gaffer it was all my fault? Because I can – if you give me, um, half an hour or so to make myself more presentable –”

“You don’t need to do that,” said Sam.

“I can go down and say it was all Merry’s fault if you’d rather,” said Frodo.

“Don’t you dare!” called a voice through the open kitchen window.

“Shut up, Merry!” Frodo shouted back. “Are you sure you won’t have anything to eat? I wouldn’t feel right sending you away otherwise.”

Sam wavered a moment longer in the doorway. He was _very_ hungry. “I can’t stay long.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Frodo, already pouring tea for him. “Sit down.”

Sam sat down, and accepted the tea, and the bread, and the jam and butter when it was offered. 

“I really am sorry about last night, Sam,” said Frodo.

“It’s alright,” said Sam.

“No, it’s not,” said Frodo. “I shouldn’t have got so drunk. It was silly of me. I do hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

So saying, he reached out and put a tentative hand on Sam’s forearm. Sam looked at Frodo’s hand. He looked at his face, open and earnest. He thought, _how much does he remember, anyway?_

Frodo obviously remembered sitting in his lap. He must have remembered the kissing. But did he remember the little touches – unbuttoning Sam’s shirt and putting his hand down inside his vest – saying _you smell nice_ and _will you kiss me again_.

Sam had been too drunk himself at the time to think it through properly but there was no mistaking the way Frodo had behaved towards him and what it meant. He remembered in sudden and acute detail the feel of Frodo’s hand against the bare skin of his chest, the feel of Frodo’s breath on his ear, Frodo’s lips on his and tongue in his mouth. For a moment his head swam.

“You didn’t, sir,” he said. “Well – you did, a bit. But I didn’t mind.” What was he supposed to _say_? “I had a nice time, sir.”

Frodo smiled at him. “Well, good,” he said. He gave Sam’s arm a squeeze, and released him. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

“And so pass on my apologies,” said Frodo. “Tell your father it’ll never happen again.”

“The noise or sitting on me?” said Sam, the questioning tumbling out before he could stop it.

Frodo broke down into peals of laughter. “Either,” he said. “Both. Whichever. Oh, goodness,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you let me sit on you for all that time.”

“It was sort of comfy,” Sam confessed.

“It was,” said Frodo, and laughed again. “I _am_ sorry, Sam. Let me know if you need me to talk to your Gaffer.”

“I will, sir.” Sam finished the last of his bread and jam, and said, “but I’d best be going. Thanks and all.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Frodo. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mister Frodo,” said Sam, and with a last nod of his head he backed out the kitchen door.

In the garden Merry was sitting perched on the stone bench beneath the kitchen window, smoking his pipe and staring at the sky. “Morning, Sam,” he said as Sam passed.

“G’morning,” Sam said.

“You know.” Merry puffed smoke upwards. “I wouldn’t have dared him to kiss you if I’d know he’d go all in like that.”

“I dare say, sir,” Sam agreed.

“I hope you didn’t mind,” said Merry.

“Not a bit, Mister Merry,” said Sam. He knew he oughtn’t to be admitting it but standing out in the warm spring sunlight he felt he could confess to any feelings he liked.

Merry smirked at him. He raised his pipe in a kind of salute. “Have a good day, Sam.”

“You too, Mister Merry,” said Sam.

Leaving the garden, he stood for a moment on the path, reflecting. Then, blithely, he began to run down the hill towards home.


End file.
